


A half-forgotten song

by howbadcanmyficsbe



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Blow Jobs, Body Worship, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Seine, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:30:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21928870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howbadcanmyficsbe/pseuds/howbadcanmyficsbe
Summary: It started with hands.
Relationships: Javert/Jean Valjean
Comments: 8
Kudos: 118





	A half-forgotten song

**Author's Note:**

> Title and lyrics are from Daft Punk's "Touch."

_Touch, I remember touch  
_ _Pictures came with touch  
_ _A painter in my mind  
_ _Tell me what you see_

_A tourist in a dream  
_ _A visitor it seems  
_ _A half-forgotten song  
_ _Where do I belong?  
_ _Tell me what you see  
_ _I need something more_

* * *

Touch was a double-edged sword, a testament to the baffling and terrifying nature of human contact. For nearly thirty years, Valjean thought of it only as a threat, a prelude to pain. The day Cosette entered his life, he was changed, able to draw out the battered remnants of his heart to give to her what love was left. To stroke her hair, to carry her on his back, to clasp her tiny hand in his own: these were acts of love that he never thought himself capable of after so many years. Yet, he was able to stumble into his role as a caretaker, a father, and worked to provide her happiness.

The thought made him ache to hold her to his chest, to never let her go. He felt much the same as he held tightly to Cosette, desperately lost, on her wedding day. It was a small comfort that she clung just as tightly to his frame, a reminder that she was not lost to him forever, as Javert had so often reminded him.

And so, touch had become simply that. Simultaneously a fraught memory and a ritual that Valjean could share with his daughter, another part of him that he could give to her. Then, unbeknownst to himself, it became something of a habit in the only other relationship in his life.

When he pulled Javert from the depths of the Seine, he found himself sliding into the role of nursemaid, checking in with frequency on Javert’s slow recovery. In the beginning, he would not dream of placing his hands anywhere near the raging creature that sat in the bed, spitting obscenities and throwing tantrums like a child. But as his rage grew quiet, gradually extinguished, Valjean was unable to help himself, a primal instinct guiding his hands. It started not intentionally; a hand on a shoulder, a brushing of fingers, a quick tucking of a strand of hair behind his ear. The incidents were small enough that Javert could not object, could not flinch away like a frightened animal unused to affection.

Without impediment, without dissuasion, Valjean persisted even after Javert had healed and their friendship began to bud, young and green. He became unconsciously bolder, holding his arm as they spoke, clutching onto his hand far longer than necessary when stepping out of a carriage, letting their shoulders touch as Javert sat next to him on the divan. Each action was meant as a comfort; like Cosette, Javert was learning to navigate a new life, a new way of being, and Valjean felt compelled to ease him into the complexities of kindness, of forgiveness.

It started with hands.

Several months had gone by in their unusual arrangement; should anyone ask, they both tentatively referred to it as a friendship, any detail of its origin vague and untraceable. Javert, forced into a semi-permanent and partly voluntary retirement, was often at a loss for what to do with his newfound leisure. He spent many days orbiting around Valjean, watching him read, helping him garden, and accompanying him to give alms. He followed like a young dog, nervously skittering after its master without a leash, too anxious to stray far.

On this particular day, Valjean was reading quietly with Javert at his side, studying a newspaper. It was not out of the ordinary at these times for Valjean to idly touch Javert’s hand in reassurance. Now though, his palms laid still, his thoughts preoccupied with the pages in his lap.

The warmth that covered his hand was unprecedented; in his shock, Valjean’s other hand flew to his mouth, smothering the sound that threatened to spill from him. Unable to turn fully to look, Valjean felt his face flush as he felt Javert’s hand firmly squeeze his own. The realization of what he had done for months now dawned on him, his stomach sinking. What Javert thought of such impropriety, Valjean could only guess. From the corner of his eye, he could see Javert blushing himself, but diverting his eyes down, feigning interest in the newsprint. His hand, covering his mouth, went to shield his eyes and the red surely covering his cheeks.

What was more pressing was the overwhelming sensation of Javert, for the first time, touching _him. _His grip was gentle, slightly timid, but growing more assured as he failed to pull away. Half of Valjean’s mind was screaming at him to run, to cower, to hide from the inevitable beating he would receive, but his rational self was far too overcome with the tenderness of it all to react. The sensation was entirely foreign to him, and he thought distantly that it may have very well have been the first time anyone but his daughter had touched him with any kindness in nearly forty years. This, though, was different, uncharted territory; he felt as though he might lose all composure should he move. So he sat, stock still, unable to focus on anything but the feeling of Javert’s skin on his own and the queer heat pooling in his chest. Neither said a word, and the afternoon carried on in an otherwise ordinary fashion.

They never spoke of Javert’s reciprocation, but it continued nonetheless for months. While they walked the streets of Paris or the gardens, Javert would sneak his hand between them, avoiding prying eyes. In the privacy of Valjean’s home, he was bold, openly studying his palms with a mixture of curiosity and reverence. The sure presence of Javert’s hand no longer frightened him so, and he soon learned to lean in to such acts, to savor the contact. He often craved it now, for Javert to reach for his hand, to explore the rough callouses along his palms, his knuckles, his fingers. They were the hands of a laborer, a convict no less, but Javert caressed them all the same. It confounded Valjean, but he could not bring himself to turn away the unexpected temptation. Never before did he think he needed such things; physical affection was a luxury not meant for an old man like himself. He now went to sleep, closing his eyes thinking of the heat of skin against skin. More than simply hands.

* * *

The summer humidity was stifling as Valjean worked in the garden. Javert watched him cautiously from the nearby bench, ready to fetch water or tools at a moment’s notice. He fretted over Valjean in his own way on days like these, ever apprehensive over his constitution. It came in chastising complaints, but Valjean knew well enough they came from a place of genuine concern and did his best not to lament the attention.

“The midday sun is hot,” Javert said.

“It is about that time of day, I suppose,” Valjean replied, crouched low to the beds. Sweat beaded at his forehead and the back of his neck, covered as he was with his collar and cuffs, buttoned stiffly.

Javert rose, walking to stand beside him and offered a hand. “Come inside, wash and we shall eat something.” Valjean took it, Javert pulling him by the arm to his feet.

In the kitchen, Javert retrieved a basin of water and a cloth, setting both in front of Valjean at the table. “Javert,” Valjean said. “I am perfectly capable of doing it myself.”

“Nonsense,” Javert said quietly, wetting the cloth and sitting. He gestured to Valjean to give him his hand. Nearly reluctant, he set it, palm upward, onto the table with a lopsided smile.

After giving it a cursory wipe, Javert began to rub the rag in circles over the skin, working at the deeper set dirt. He started at the fingertips, under the fingernails, and moved his way upwards, unhurried. Valjean gave a deep sigh in content, closing his eyes and trying to calm the fluttering of his heart. How silly, for a man of his age to have his chest so filled with anticipation like this. It set his heart alight but calmed him all the same.

Abruptly, that heart sank as he felt Javert unbuttoning his cuff, peeling away the outer layer and revealing the tattered skin beneath. Valjean’s eyes shot open, not to look at his wrist but at Javert’s face; his breath hitched. Regrettably, Javert’s gaze was fixed on the cuff. His eyes were wide, and his hands shook slightly as he took in the mangled scars. He was no longer touching him, and the absence made Valjean feel as though he might be ill.

It occurred to Valjean that Javert had not thought of how broken his body might be. He thought of how fractured his heart once was and his lifelong struggle to mend the scar across his own soul. The wounds were surely healed, but persisted all the same, phantom pains real and imagined. Strange, how Javert would be so quick to forget the very thing that defined him, defined the tension between them spread over so many years. Surely, Javert knew of both those deep lacerations. Now, he was only struck with their physicality, their tangible cruelty.

Without warning, Javert was grabbing at his other hand, still trembling; Valjean allowed it, letting his arm go slack. Javert fumbled with the buttons of the matching cuff so that both wrists laid bare before him, mismatched twins. The look on his face was dreadful, riddled with pain and a disgust Valjean could not place. Of course, the state of his body must horrify Javert, to be reminded so blatantly of all the reprehensible things that Valjean once was. Is. He felt now he could laugh at how inevitable, how appropriate it was. As if he ever deserved the touches Javert granted him, the privilege of human contact. It was a blessing unsuited for a man such as him, but a disfigured shell. This body was not built to receive such kindness; perhaps once, long ago, but those days were gone, left to a time he strained to remember.

Javert’s chair suddenly scraped against the floor as he hurriedly pulled the arms of Valjean’s shirt back down, concealing a shame not meant for his eyes. He mumbled what might have been an apology, an excuse to take his leave, and Valjean was left to stare blankly at the empty chair, pale wrists still upturned on the table.

* * *

Valjean heard nothing from Javert for a week. Resigned as he was to see such revulsion on Javert’s face, it would not surprise him to never see the man again, no matter how much he should like to. To see his face, to let him touch his hands again, let that warmth burn him like a brand. He could scarcely look at himself, in the mirror or otherwise. When he changed his clothes, he felt he should scream, silent cries only muffled under layers of fabric that he piled on even in the unbearably hot days. Toulon was still his cage, a chain to drag, and its evidence would forever mar his flesh. Javert was the witness to corroborate it, the first to see it, and he could not bear the thought. The only course of action was to succumb to numbness, push any feelings from his mind. In those times, those darkest of days, anger was the only emotion he could bear. Now, with all rage dissipated, he could only feel emptiness, tearing at his heart with absent ferocity.

It was in that state that he heard a knock at the door. Valjean glanced out the window, confused as he went to answer it, for the time was far past sundown. Javert stood at the threshold, hat in his hands. Once past the shock of seeing him again, Valjean noticed his haggard appearance, the dark circles under his eyes and his pale complexion. His hair, typically immaculate, was tied back haphazardly, errant strands flying around his hairline. Valjean was tempted to assume he had perhaps been assaulted on the street, but no such other signs were present. He elected to disregard it. Surely he himself looked no better.

“…Come in,” he eventually said. Javert walked past him swiftly, shedding his coat and pacing about the parlor. Valjean followed, standing at the edge of the room. “Tea?” he asked hesitantly. Turning toward him, Javert gave a wearied look. “Perhaps not then,” he muttered, taking a seat in a chair by the hearth.

Javert could not look at him as he stood, clutching his elbows and fidgeting in place. Valjean stayed silent as several emotions played across Javert’s face, looking as if he intended to say something. He took a moment to collect himself, inhaling and exhaling loudly and taking another moment to aimlessly walk around the room before addressing him.

“I must first apologize for my conduct. It was not right to think myself entitled to such an indulgence.”

Valjean furrowed his brow, puzzled. “I beg your pardon?” he said.

“Secondly I must apologize for my much more… grievous offense.” Javert was growing more visibly distressed, running his hand roughly through his hair. “To think I thought… this… this thing could make any difference. Incredibly daft of me.”

“I don’t understand, Javert.”

“To think- to think I…” Javert was pacing again, wringing his hands together and breathing heavily. Suddenly Valjean was standing, holding him firmly in place as he took Javert’s hands in his own. He was unsure at first that he should touch Javert, fearing a flinch, a look of horror. But Javert only froze in his grip, eyes locked again on his hands. Looking back and forth between Valjean and their hands, waiting for reproach, Javert slowly lifted one shirt cuff, raised white skin peeking through.

“I have done this to you,” Javert said, in a voice so quiet Valjean could hardly hear. He ran his thumb over the wrist, light as a ghost.

“You… this was not your doing,” Valjean said cautiously. He was now even further perturbed, seeing not a trace of aversion in Javert’s expression. To be sure, there was a look of abhorrence, but he began to understand its direction, its intended target. “…No, no, Javert,” he said, pleading. “You cannot blame yourself for- for...“

Valjean trailed off as Javert brought his hands close to his face and felt something wet creep between his fingers. He heard a stifled noise come from Javert’s throat and realized with a start that he was weeping.

“Even-” Javert gasped for breath. “Even after what I have done, you would absolve me.” He brought a hand up, cradling it against his cheek, muddled with tears. It was unnerving, to see this odd expression on Javert’s face, to see him cry. He looked as though he may have never cried in his life, himself alarmed at the strange sensation. It looked wrong, out of place, improper.

“Javert,” Valjean said. “You did not do this to me.”

“I may as well have,” Javert choked out. “I allowed it. Upheld it. Thought it just.” His voice hitched on the last word, turning into a sob. Javert’s eyes were downcast, averted from Valjean’s worried gaze. He still held one of Valjean’s hands firmly against his face.

“You must understand though,” Valjean said softly, “I have forgiven it all. You are a different man, you know this.”

Javert was silent for a long while, clutching at his hand, the stream of tears slowing. It was absurd; even now, Valjean wanted nothing more than this touch despite the anguish he knew it brought Javert. The thought was miserably selfish, and guilt sat in his stomach as if he were terribly bruised, had taken a beating to his ribs. Suddenly, he felt Javert exhale, the warm breath hitting the back of his hand.

“You would sooner offer me compassion than yourself,” Javert said plainly. His expression was wretched.

“I-“ he paused, taken aback. “Well.”

At that, Javert looked at Valjean directly, eyes red and raw. His stare was severe as he closed his eyes and determinedly turned his head toward Valjean’s hand, lips trailing down to his wrist and planting a light kiss atop the scars.

“Oh,” Valjean breathed. He was immobile, feeling as if he were underwater. It was hardly the sensation of drowning, but rather the impression of floating. Calming, asphyxiating.

Javert stopped, eyeing Valjean, his lips momentarily withdrawing from his skin. He mourned the loss.

“…Do you wish for me to stop?” When Valjean stood silent, he peered at him, expression unreadable. Javert returned and kissed at the vein on the underside of his wrist. “Allow me this apology. I beg of you.”

“Do not-“ he shivered at another brush of Javert’s lips. “Do not beg, please.”

Mute, Javert only ventured further down, adorning the thickest parts of the scar tissue with his kisses. Before each touch he whispered, offering his repentance, a murmured prayer lost in Valjean’s coarse skin. When he had covered all the expanse possible under the cuff, he took hold of Valjean’s other hand and repeated the same ritual.

Valjean could not move, could not attempt to understand the contrition filling those touches, the softness of Javert’s lips. It was as if words would no longer suffice in Javert’s ambition to repent, to relinquish his soul. Touch was all that was left to force sense into Valjean, to tell him that even this, his greatest shame, was cared for. More care than he could ever manage for himself.

It seemed as if hours had passed before Javert released his hold, letting his arms fall to his sides. “Valjean, I-“

“Please,” Valjean cut him off. “No apologies.” He took hold of a hand, twining their fingers together, and hoped Javert would be able to decipher the meaning. Javert studied him, wary, before swiftly buttoning the cuffs again. It was a shield, a truce, however impermanent.

* * *

There was an unspoken agreement between them, an understanding that formed slowly. It was a steady wave of touch, wearing down at the sharp edges of the once impassable wall between them. The tension was still present, rabid remorse still thrumming wildly through them both, but it soon settled, until Valjean could find a nearly uninhibited solace with his wrists under Javert’s lips.

Javert held his hand in the park. It was sporadic, breaking apart in the open spaces where others might see, but close and tender in the more secluded havens throughout the grounds. The weather was starting to turn, an early flurry of snow falling lazily in spite of the trees, still partly green.

They had walked for quite some time, simply enjoying the changing leaves and making light conversation. Javert inquired of his experience as a tree pruner, displaying what seemed genuine interest in the species and their required care. Valjean wanted so badly to appreciate each moment, to enjoy the tranquility around them, to speak of things nostalgic, but could feel his leg growing heavy, an old ache shooting through the bones. Soon enough, the ache turned to sharper, more palpable pain.

They walked a short distance before Javert gradually stopped. “Valjean,” he said.

Valjean gave him a hard look. “Please do not call me that here.”

“You must take me for a fool.”

“Javert,” he said chidingly.

“You intend to keep on without a word while you limp in agony? I will call for a cab.”

“I can certainly walk, Javert.”

“A likely story,” he said, tone dripping with dry sarcasm.

Javert huffed all the way as he stuffed Valjean into the carriage, ignoring all complaints and assurances of his supposed health. Through the grumbling, he clasped Valjean’s elbow to supplant his uneven gait as they made their way down the steps of the cab and through the entryway to Valjean’s apartment. He deposited him onto the divan after taking his coat and propped his leg onto the ottoman.

“…hardly necessary,” Valjean said under his breath, but hissed nevertheless at the bend of his knee.

Disregarding the quip, Javert studied him, an odd look on his face, before perching on a nearby chair and carefully removing his boots.

“A massage would be best,” Javert said. A worried expression flashed across his face. “Though, I will refrain if you do not permit it.”

Valjean, through the pain, considered the question. Undoubtedly, he was well acquainted with Javert’s touch, actively seeking it out when possible. Javert surely had his hands mapped now, each curve and wrinkle committed to memory. The idea was enough to bring a flush to his ears. However, what Javert now asked of him was another thing entirely. To pry open another part of his heart, to offer it to him and trust that he would do right by it; it was a heavy weight on his mind. Though, he lamented, it sat not nearly as looming as his throbbing leg. Haltingly, he exhaled through his nose, closed his eyes, and nodded.

As he felt the fingers on his knee, his breath hitched sharply. Javert gave him a concerned glance but went on, kneading in tight circles. Pain started to mingle with relief as Javert’s hands worked into the muscle, warming his skin. Valjean allowed himself to let out a sigh as Javert moved down his calf. His pace was steady until he neared Valjean’s ankle, suddenly palming lightly rather than massaging. Valjean stared at him, saying nothing as Javert reached back up his leg, pushing up his pant, and took hold of the top of Valjean’s stocking, pulling deliberately down.

Javert let his fingers explore around the scars on his ankle, battered from years on the chain. He seemed to ponder the sight for a moment, and Valjean worried he may start sobbing yet again. Instead, Javert lowered his head to the ottoman and pressed his lips against the skin. Valjean let out a gasp, a breath he had not realized he was holding. Javert nosed around it and lifted the leg, as if it were a delicate treasure, to access underneath. After making his way around its circumference, he trailed his lips up further, stopping at Valjean’s knee and holding his calf with a gentle firmness. Only then did he look up to Valjean’s face, a heated, pink color certainly spreading across it. Javert’s expression was meek, betraying any confidence of his hands. Still, it was a far cry from the first time he saw his wrists, how he trembled with shame. Valjean’s heart pounded.

“...Does it feel any better, then?”

“Y-yes,” Valjean said, swallowing. “Better. Much better.”

Javert looked at him intently, worriedly, until he dropped his gaze and stood. Retrieving his coat, he took his leave for the night. His exit felt hurried and left Valjean hungry, bewildered, and, most of all, enamored.

* * *

It left them strained for weeks. Javert’s attempts at affection grew weaker, more awkward, as though there was something missing in the gesture, left wanting. Valjean found himself wringing his hands restlessly, staring at Javert when he looked away. He fixated on his fingers, his lips, wishing only that they might find his skin again. It was pitiful to crave such things, knowing they came from Javert’s harrowing guilt, but he wanted for it all the same. He wanted more than an apology in the touch, yearning for a thing he could not name.

Valjean thought of those first few months, the contact he himself had initiated, intent notwithstanding. It was only his own actions that spurred on Javert; perhaps it was needed again to bring them back to some form of normalcy.

As a pretense, Valjean invited him to dinner and sent the housekeeper home early. There were too many vegetables from the latest garden harvest, he insisted; he would need the help eating them. It took convincing, several notes sent between them and a brief, unannounced visit to Javert’s apartment to wrench him along. The entire exchange was foolish, infuriating, tiresome. But Valjean knew it would, without intervention, never be mended.

Javert sat next to him, even more quiet than was typical, picking at his food, disinterested. He wanted to tell him to eat; his clothes still hung on him somewhat, weight stolen by his illness after the river. However, Valjean could not seem to bring himself to speak. The words would only come out halted, not quite conveying the very complicated thoughts he wished Javert to know. Ironically, Valjean had thought so long ago that touches would make Javert’s recovery, and his gradual transformation, easier. It now only served to complicate things between them, muddling his mind with desires he had never even considered in all his life.

Silently, slowly, Valjean reached across the table, taking hold of Javert’s unoccupied hand. Javert ducked his head, turning away from him, hiding in the depths of his collar. Reacting only on instinct, Valjean raised his other hand and used it to cup Javert’s jaw, angling his head toward him again.

“I thought it would pain you,” Javert said. “To do this.”

“I surely thought the same of you,” he replied. They let the moment go silent as Valjean cradled his face, neither making eye contact. “In truth, I only miss it. But I want not for my petty desires to hurt you, to bring any more on your conscience.”

Javert gave a cracked laugh. “Petty?” he said, incredulous. “Valjean I only... I only wish to show you what I see. I hoped you might understand.”

“Understand, understand what?”

“How—that is to say,” he cleared his throat, as though exerting an effort to speak. “How pleasant you are. Your company. You. All of you.” He gestured up and down at Valjean.

He seemed unable to respond for a moment, eyes frantically searching Javert’s face before collecting himself. “Truly?” he said in a whisper.

Rather than grace him with an answer, Javert leaned forward and pressed his hand to the back of Valjean’s head, fingers sinking into the white curls. It took several moments for Valjean to realize that Javert was kissing him. It was so odd to feel his lips elsewhere, telling him that this part of him too was worthy. It was chaste, sweet, if unsure, posed as a question rather than a statement. He suddenly pulled back, looking intently in Valjean’s eyes. His face was scarlet, breath ragged.

“Forgive me,” he said before Valjean began to lean back in, closing the gap between them. “How... how stupid of m-“

Javert was quieted by another kiss. It was awkward, stumbling, the sensation so new, as if becoming drunk for the first time. Valjean mused that this was far better than any wine he had tasted, far more potent than any spirit. And so, he drank. Javert, emboldened, moved to kiss his jawline, rubbing against his beard, and descended into his collar. His hands went to his cravat.

“May I?” he breathed. Valjean instantly knew why and closed his eyes, nodding, and craned his neck in offering.

“Please.”

Even after all the time they had spent together in the past year and a half, Valjean had never felt Javert’s touch quite so gentle. Careful, to be sure. This, though, was a touch filled with another feeling entirely. Patient, unhurried, loving. Love. When the word came to mind, Valjean felt a surge of affection in his chest. He untied the cravat and folded it neatly on the table and returned to folding back the high collar, revealing the bare skin it hid for all those years. Javert ran his index finger over the ring of white circling the base of his neck. The cold sent a shiver up Valjean’s spine, and Javert mumbled an apology.

Valjean felt immediate relief from any chill when Javert’s mouth went to his throat. He breathed sharply, arching his neck as Javert traveled around his neck, feeling the thrum of his vocal cords under the thin line of mottled skin. These kisses were undeniably kind, but had an edge that Javert seemed to be attempting to contain. Valjean wanted so badly to tell him to let go, to lose himself to whatever was driving him to kiss him like _that. _It was all he could do though to keep from squirming under Javert’s touch.

When he thought he could take no more, Javert was moving back towards his mouth, kissing him once again on the lips. It was short-lived as he pulled away, and Valjean ran a hand through his hair, tucking away a flyaway strand. How strange it was, to find that blushing face so dear.

“Thank you,” Javert said. Valjean was desperate to ask what his intent, what exactly he meant to thank him for, to insist there was no reason to do so.

“Ah, well,” he said, turning down with a hint of a smile. Javert followed suit with an approximation of a grin and began to stand.

“I should take my leave,” Javert said.

Valjean grabbed his arm to still him. “No,” he said. “Stay for a short while. Please.”

Javert looked into his eyes wordlessly for a time before nodding. Taking the folded cravat from the table, he made to return it to its rightful place, to close his collar again. Valjean took hold of his wrist, letting it fall. He stood to clear the table and gave a smile, genuine, unmasked.

* * *

Kisses became a rare, but precious commodity. Even as they increased in frequency, in boldness, it never decreased their value. Every kiss was like the first, the novelty never wavering, a miracle both in its uniqueness and in how commonplace it had become.

Valjean cherished those moments, when Javert would approach him from behind in the garden, leaning down around his wide-brimmed hat. When he would distract him from reading by planting quick stolen kisses at his neck. The way Javert seemed ever pleased when Valjean took the lead, drawing him in after dinners spent with Cosette when they were left alone again. This must have been what teenagers felt like, sneaking around; it was something Valjean had never lamented, the loss of that opportunity as a young man. He wished now to claim it all back, to rewind time and recover what was once lost, and was sure Javert felt the same.

No matter how often they shared these treats, these indulgences, there was always something left wanting. A heat building in his chest, his stomach, and a tightness between his legs. Javert was certainly aware; he had seen evidence of the same in Javert’s trousers on several occasions. The sight left him too mortified to ever act on the temptation and left him in prayer for the remainder of the night.

It was months after their first kiss; they were returning from a dinner party at the Pontmercy estate late in the evening. Javert typically would walk from Valjean’s house to his own apartment, but Valjean found himself lounging in the parlor with him, slightly giddy from the wine. Both had stripped down their outer layers and neck dressings, scandalously carrying on in their shirtsleeves, collars open wide.

Using the opportunity to return Javert’s many favors, Valjean was taking in the expanse of his collarbone with his lips. It was all angles, hot skin, touched by no other; he felt a great pride to have such access, to see Javert so unwound that he would allow it. Javert’s breath grew more hurried, gasping as he fumbled around Valjean, feeling every surface of him. Exploring, Javert’s hands went over his head, his arms, and moved around to grip at his broad shoulder blades. His hands slowed over the area, carefully tracing over the ridges of bone and muscle. Valjean was unsure if Javert could feel the scars beneath, or if he knew instinctively; the nerves of his back were dulled, covered in a layer of useless, unfeeling tissue.

Shyly, he lifted his head; Javert’s expression was concerned, searching. He cupped Javert’s face with both hands, pulling him into a kiss and looked at him in answer. Javert stared, nodded, and his hands went to the hem of his trousers as Valjean turned, facing away. Pressing a reassuring kiss to the side of his throat, Javert pulled the shirt from underneath and over his head.

Valjean perched at the edge of the settee, clutching at his wrinkled shirt, shoulders hunched. He suddenly thought of his back, ravaged as it was, and pondered. As was the nature of backs, he himself had never seen it fully. Half glances in mirrors to be sure, but he had never made the effort to see the extent of the lashes spread across it. How overwrought was it? How distorted had the marks become with age? How faded? How stark? Javert would be the only soul to bear witness. The thought was surprisingly comforting, and he accepted the improbability and the odd, circular journey their lives had taken.

He was still as Javert’s fingers splayed across his back but let out a sigh as Javert leaned into the nape of his neck, kissing emphatically. Valjean could not move, could not breathe as Javert moved across and down. Regrettably, he found himself wracking his mind to remember if Javert had a part in any of the long rakes on his skin. It was impossible, and he doubted that even Javert would remember each and every prisoner he once saw lashed. There were far too many guards, far too many convicts.

None of it mattered, he thought, as Javert’s arms wrapped around his waist; lost in thought, the process had gone so fast, a series of kisses he could hardly feel atop dead skin. The press of him, the crushing weight of his love was overwhelming; he could feel his eyes well with tears as he began to shake. Valjean pivoted towards Javert and buried himself into the embrace, heaving his shoulders, unable to quiet the fit of sobbing laughter running through him like wild animal. The incredible irony of it all, the sorrow of who he was, and the paralyzing torrent of love he felt in the last months hit him all at once. Javert held him through it all until he slowed, growing more silent until he was still. They sat for a long while before either spoke.

“You have endured more than any man should,” Javert whispered. “If I could take and bear those scars myself, take the pain...” he steeled himself as his voice cracked and fell.

Valjean let his arms fold around Javert’s middle and held him, grateful that they should both be alive to do so. That they were both different men from that distant time. He wanted so terribly to be thankful for each and every day of this, that they could do something so simple and so complicated as to hold each other. Eventually, he emerged to kiss Javert, a soft smile on his face.

“You have already,” he said, kissing him again before he could argue the point. It was a conversation they had already run through, and a debate they would certainly have again. But now, they would only focus on this moment, past and future shelved but not forgotten.

Javert ran his hands across his bare chest, taking in the muscle, the fat, and all the imperfections underneath. As they kissed more deeply, Javert’s hands traveled to any available skin in front of him, soon stroking against Valjean’s thigh. He was uncomfortably aware of his own arousal, half-hard and rising at Javert’s touch. Desperately, he reached to unbutton Javert’s shirt, seeking the lean frame and dark hair coating his chest.

Without warning, Javert’s hand brushed over the edge of his hardness through his trousers. He bucked his hips, breaking their kiss to let out a sound partway between a yelp and a moan and fell into Javert’s neck, gasping.

“I- I apologize,” Javert breathed. He paused for a pregnant moment. Valjean was heaving again, feeling as though a furnace was burning in him.

“Never before have I- that is, may I?” His hands still rested on Valjean’s thighs, an implicit invitation. Valjean, unable to speak, nodded his head in affirmation, mumbling something of a plea, and Javert set to work.

Gently, Javert sat Valjean up again and lowered to his knees, elbows leaning on the cushions. He gave several contemplating strokes over the fabric. Valjean’s expression was mortified, but nodded Javert to solider on as he carefully unfastened his trousers, freeing the strain between his legs to the open air. Valjean’s face was unbearably warm, his mind howling for relief. Javert held his hands on Valjean’s hips, thumbs digging into the bones trailing down beneath his naval.

“Beautiful,” Javert said with adoration. “Nothing short of beautiful.”

If it were any other person in the world, Valjean would assume it a lie told out of kindness, of pity. Of all the parts of him, of any man, it was surely the most ugly, the most shameful. This, however, was Javert. He was incapable of falsehood, fastidiously straightforward. There was no alternative but to take his word wholeheartedly. So this, of everything, was beautiful. His innermost desires not meant for anyone to see were beautiful; they were enough. The sentiment set his heart fluttering and set the rest of his body on fire so hot he thought he might burn through the divan.

With all the care and veneration of a man in prayer, Javert kissed the tip of his prick. Valjean breathed, letting out a small, shuddering sigh as Javert angled, moving his mouth and dragging slightly down his length, kissing every available space. When he reached the base, he shifted to the other side, doing due diligence in traveling back up to his head, tongue peeking through his lips and sending Valjean into breathless pants with his prick twitching, fully hard.

One of Valjean’s hands went to cover part of his face and to bite down on the wails that were sure to escape the depths of his throat. The other hand went to Javert’s head. A more eager, impatient part of him wished to grab him, pull his mouth closer, but he resisted and settled on stroking his fingers through Javert’s hair. Watching through his fingers, Valjean looked at him. Javert’s hair was askew, strands hanging around his face; his shirt was open, and a red flush spread all the way from his face to his chest that rose and fell with hungry breaths. Valjean tried to imagine himself, shirtless, exposed, and melting under Javert’s touch. A humiliating idea if not for the way Javert looked at him, as if he were the most angelic thing he had ever laid eyes on. For the third time in his life, Valjean felt a light in his chest, an overwhelming torrent of love, divine in nature.

It was just after that loving look that Javert leaned in again, taking the tip of Valjean’s prick into his mouth. The sensation was so warm, so unfamiliar on Valjean’s skin. Helpless to stop it, Valjean choked out a moan, clutching slightly at Javert’s hair. He could feel Javert smiling around him at the sound and took more of him in response, experimentally dragging his tongue and bobbing his head. If not for the firm grip on his hips, Valjean was sure he would lose any semblance of control as he let out another cry. He began to thrust under Javert’s hands, finding a steadily building rhythm with his mouth and tried to stroke through his increasingly disheveled hair with encouragement.

Valjean distantly considered again this impossible thing between them. It was the first time anyone had known him in this way in his sixty years. Others might find themselves regretful, bitter over the lost time. However, looking at Javert on his knees, feeling such love radiating from his being, Valjean could not even think to imagine an alternative. This was no longer repentance, no longer sorrow; it was an act filled to the brim, spilling with love.

“Javert,” Valjean said, speech nearly lost in a broken groan as his head fell back. At the sound of his name, Javert let out a rumbling, pleading moan around Valjean’s prick.

Suddenly, Valjean could scarcely perceive anything around him but Javert’s mouth, swallowing his spend as he rocked him through what may have been the greatest pleasure in his life. And what a gift! What a lovely, irreplaceable exchange, to feel this and to see Javert blissfully looking on.Valjean staggered for a moment before regaining his faculties. Breathless, boneless, Valjean leaned forward as Javert emerged from his lap, taking a hand inside his trousers and grabbing hold of his straining arousal. After several short strokes, Valjean felt his hand go wet and Javert, still kneeling, fell forward with an extended moan, muffled against Valjean’s leg.

Fumbling to hold Javert to him, he meant to apologize, to say anything, but stopped at the look on Javert’s face. His expression was of total relief, the most elated he had ever seen him. Remarkably, he looked, Valjean thought, happy. Smiling, he ran his clean hand through Javert’s hair, taking a moment to appreciate the streaks of silver increasingly growing from his temples and through his whiskers. Rather than with grief, he was beginning to age with grace, settling comfortably into his later years. As Javert’s breaths slowed to an even calm, he raised his head; Valjean bent to kiss him.

Javert broke the kiss and cradled Valjean’s cheek. “Shall I fetch a towel?” he asked.

Valjean felt the stickiness of his hand and chuckled sheepishly against Javert’s mouth, kissing him again, and again, and again. Touch, accepting it, had finally become something new, something to look forward to, something to hold dear. Not simply to give, but to receive with trust. Touch had become love, and love became touch.

Valjean kissed him again, scars all but forgotten.

**Author's Note:**

> This was a tangled mess of headcanons and conversations had between many people and my brain felt compelled to mash them all together. Happy holidays!
> 
> It's a good a time as any to mention that in the time I've written these four Valvert fics I've also made four Les Mis fanmixes, so go check those out if you want, based on what people have told me, a good kick in the stomach.


End file.
